Blood, Love, and Rum
by Dollfayce
Summary: Another rum soaked, heart stopping adventure from your beloved and beautiful Dollfayce. Maybe the first rumsoaked one. Whatever. Anyways. All about the newly elected pirate king and how she actually can't just run away. JE.


A/N—from your beautiful and charming Dollfayce.

Spoilers--Not so much spoilers as it won't make sense unless you've seen AWE. Maybe that's the same thing. I don't know.

Also while Jack and Elizabeth are most certainly not my OTP, I think they can kiss sometimes without the world ending. Come on.

I don't like Jack's POV which is how this starts so that won't continue, but it works well for this chapter. Oh yes, and please review, because it's the only thing that brings joy to me these days, other than beautiful men bearing bottles of rum. So, actually I guess if you're one of those, we could work something out too.

That's it, my beauties. Enjoy.

BLOOD LOVE AND RUM

Nobody believes me, because I am—well—eccentric, but there are reasons for absolutely everything I do. Mostly those reasons involve thought processes like "I am thirsty" or "She is pretty" or "I bet he's forgotten all about that" but sometimes other things come into play too, so there. _That's_ maybe why I volunteered, if you're curious.

For example.

Sometimes, lately, and mostly of course thanks to my dashing good looks and endless charms and grace and not at all to do with recent notorious or infamous feats of daring, I would find my pretty self at the nicer sorts of parties.

(And no, it probably wasn't clever to go. When have I cared about _that, _pray tell? But you wanted Jack Sparrow. And I gave you Jack Sparrow. Captain. Captain Jack Sparrow. And in return, I got—well. I had my _fun_.)

I had all sorts of fun. Especially with you younger ones who didn't know any better.

And, like that blacksmith himself—well, probably, it's not like we wasted any time having heart to hearts, not that that's possible these days anyway—I find myself thinking of her. For one reason or another. Lately. Like I said.

When I meet the "gilded youth" or whatever it is you're being called these days—that is, when I meet you sweet-faced maids and bright-eyed lads, you always seem to tell me the same thing. In doing so you all become the same person—in doing so you all become the same pathetic idealistic social climber in some sort of perverse reverse glory. You all fancy that rouge seductive and your money thrilling, and that flash of skin exciting as if I don't know I could not simply have it all if I wanted—have it or take it. You all lean into my ear and I lean forward too, and pretend to smile, as you whisper into my ear, and intimate all these false dreams—of piracy.

You always dreamed of being a pirate, you say. Every single _one _of you silly sad sweet things tell me this, (and I remember that I was once a silly sweet sad thing too, but in different ways, and for different reasons.) I don't know why this is—this is a terrible lie, I do. We filthy bastards have somehow garnered a rather romantic reputation for a given definition of romantic. Although I suppose technically we are. Romantic, that is. You just chose the wrong kind—the open frilly shirts and corsets and…flowers? Music? I don't know. We're the blood, love, and rhetoric sort.

Only really we're the blood love and rum sort. The sort a young thing swoons over, eh? Yes? Maybe not.

All these garden parties or whatever they're calling them nowadays, I usually end up taking one of these young things off somewhere private and quiet and undisturbed. Or at least _mostly_ private and _mostly_ quiet and_ mostly_ undisturbed. Discovery could prove either—well, the addition of people to that particular equation either proves awkward or incredible. But you know that, I'm _sure_.

And sometimes there's one or two of them I grow quite fond of. For a week or two.

That there's what I'm talking about again when the objects of my questionable affections—well, when things go sour. All those false dichotomies. Good versus evil which is really pragmatic. Noble versus base, which is really boring versus, well, the opposite of that. I prefer calling it possessing a certain joie de vivre, but, I've never heard my partners share that particular viewpoint. Not when it came right down to it, anyway.

Liars.

It gets worse than all that, though. "Romantic" versus Romantic. Love versus lust. Soldier versus pirate. Or whatever. Whatever versus pirate.

Elizabeth.

Or weren't we talking about that? Excuse me, her?

Well now that she's, ah, on the table, so to speak, I'll discuss something she never took to heart—Will versus ME.

Not that I ever—it's not important of course, it's principle. But still. And I don't like to—well. The important thing is, she always did have a hard time learning. A hard time.

I had been thinking of her more and more often, of our lost pirate king, when I would see all these pale pampered spoiled things my own kin would destroy—run them through with swords, make them dance, take everything from them. Everything.

We _are not kind. _We are not lovable rogues—not all of us. What we are is beyond censure. Maybe, then, she was right to turn her back on us. She could have learned so much more before turning away, though. Just a thought.

We are not kind. But she was not stupid.

And hopefully these last months had done nothing to change it. I did after all, have something I needed her to do.

I had now been parked on her front step for well over an hour, thankful that she had chosen this picturesque pile of lumber for whatever reason, rather than return to her family's lands. I am more popular at the moment but I do not make a favorable impression on everyone yet.

Evidently I also do not a favorable impression on Elizabeth as she had been taking a damnably long time to come let me into her secret hideaway that no one was supposed to know about especially me. It was cold, and wet, and rainy, but fortunately I had precautionary measures.

I was well into my second bottle of rum by the time Elizabeth opened the door. I rose, steady on my feet as ever.

"Jack," she said flatly. Hadn't changed a bit. Unfortunately.

"Lizzie!" I replied, with great if perhaps overly profuse affection.

"Leave," she said, and shut the door.

I heard a baby crying inside, and winced. But there was nothing else to be done. I knocked again.

"Lizzie, it's very important, don't let's make me shoot in the lock or start crying." I paused. "Or both."

"What IS it." Harsh as ever. But the door opened. "Jack, we both know you're not here just to have a drink."

"Ah, there you would be wrong," I said, and started to let myself in. She stopped me.

"I said just."

"Oh lovey," I said, just to unsettle her, I admit, "not just _me._ We all need youYour Majesty. Highness. Ladyship. Whatever."

I was excited to see what she would and who I would be taking back with me as king. It could be her--it could be her brat. I didn't care. Hell, it could be--but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Poor Elizabeth. She should have listened.


End file.
